


In All Matters

by OneEntireBee



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Captivity, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25069783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneEntireBee/pseuds/OneEntireBee
Summary: An unseen extract from the diary of one Jonathan Harker. It is apparent why he wished for it to remain unseen, but in the interest of preserving history in its most pure state, the account must be collected.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	In All Matters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayrt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayrt/gifts).



Previously, I believed this diary my lifeline. My one remaining sanctuary from the madness of this cursed castle and its wicked master. I had hoped, perhaps, that if one day something untoward were to happen to me, this diary would serve as a last memoir so that my wretched fate could at least be known with some level of detail. Despite the small matter of my wandering eye’s indiscretion with the Count’s resident maidens, I still thought it would be for the best if this diary eventually made its way into Mina’s hands. Then, at least, she could have closure.

Now, I hope with all my heart that not a single soul reads these words. 

I fought with myself over the matter of recording last night’s events. Putting them to ink would, in some way, make them more real, the thought of which was unbearable to me. But as a prisoner, my shorthand is the only tactic I have to fight back against the Count’s utter power over me, and my pen, my only weapon.

God help me, but I am weak.

Let me begin. Last night. . . 

No, you see? Even now my hands shake as I attempt a recollection.

Last _evening_ then; perhaps I will start there. The Count and I were dining together as usual. Which is to say, I with tentative bites, and he not at all. I had grown suspicious as the nights went on that perhaps my ever-gracious host was putting something in my food. Perhaps he meant to make me hallucinate and question my grip on reality further.

If so, he had no need. His mere presence was driving me stark raving mad.

As I picked at my vegetables, Dracula spoke. He continued to impress upon me his need to master the English language, despite my every insistence that his command of it was already absolute. (Ha. I suppose the language is much like myself, then.) At this point, we had exhausted the obvious topics of conversation. I’d given him every scrap of information I had on the art of housing. He’d regaled me with tales of his family and his country, which I had long since stopped trying to pinpoint as either fact or folklore. He’d pried me for details on myself and my life, and despite my attempts to redirect, he always found a way to ply something new from my lips. 

Tonight, Dracula wanted to speak of music. Never being much of an arts man myself, I let him lead the conversation. I’d grown to dread the sound of his voice, though. Hearing him drone for so long - no matter how passionately - was something of a torment. I found myself turning to my glass of wine over and over, drinking in an attempt to make the evening pass quicker. Dracula must have noticed - how could he not? - for he made certain to refill my glass whenever it grew low. It was some sweet dessert wine from his homeland. Not strictly to my taste, but I couldn’t rightly afford to snub it. 

I suppose I’m not so skilled at holding my drink. 

As the hours wore on, a disorienting softness came over my senses. I leaned forward in my chair - I thought to hear the Count better - and crossed my legs. It was only minutes later I realized there was another reason for my instinctive shift in posture. I had not used the washroom in quite some time, and all the wine had accelerated the natural need. 

If I asked to be excused to tend to myself, would the Count grant it? He did so love keeping me in his company until the dawn rose and he scuttled away, back into his darkness. On previous nights - before I had realized the malicious truth of his nature and intent - he had chided me for attempting to end our talks early. It had only been a gentle scolding, one that could have been mistaken for humorous if the Count’s presence allowed for humor, but nonetheless it made me wonder what would happen to me if I pressed the matter. 

I glanced out the window of the dining hall. Dawn was so far away. 

“...such that a would-be player has no obstacles besides — Mister Harker. Are you listening to me?”

I turned my focus back to him and pressed my thighs together tightly. “Of course. I was merely taking in the view to accompany your riveting tale.”

The Count looked at me closely. The weight of his gaze alone seemed to violate me. I wanted to run from those piercing eyes. Perhaps it was my apprehension of them which made me imagine that he looked upon me and knew my struggle — for their was a knowing, smug gleam in them.

“My dear Jonathan,” he said, and poured me yet more sickening sweet wine. “I hope you are eagerly anticipating the long night ahead of us.” 

“Of course,” I said with a false smile. 

Ah, here I pause not for the shaking of my hands, but for sheer shame. It overwhelms me, choking me like I sometimes dream of the Count doing. (I dream he wraps his strong, cruel fingers around my throat and wrings until I am pliant and helpless beneath him. Then he takes his wolf’s teeth to my neck, then my thighs, then — no!)

I could not deny that I was at the mercy of my body. (Perhaps, at that moment, more so than at the mercy of the Count.) I was dizzy and heavy with drink, and my body was desperate to relieve itself. I couldn’t simply run. I had visions of doing so and being pursued by the Count, of being descended upon by fangs and claws in semblance of teeth and fingernails. So I simply sat, tensed and desperate, until I could bear it no longer. 

“I beg your pardon.” I interrupted Dracula’s monologue on violin manufacturers with a wince. “I hate to leave you for even a moment, I do, but I have some needs I must attend to.”

That gleam returned to the Count’s eyes. “My friend! What needs press you so urgently which you cannot attend to in my presence?”

The wretch! He wished to see me humiliate myself for his entertainment. I bit back a curse on his name, and instead stammered out an undignified request to use the washroom. Like some child asking their guardian’s permission. My face burned.

Dracula tapped his chin with a pointed nail, looking for all the world like I had given him a most unreasonable demand. “While I understand your struggle, I must admit, I would be quite offended if you were flee from my presence for such a trivial matter.”

I gasped as a spasm of the muscles between my legs nearly gave me an unpleasant shock. I gripped the edge of the dining table with both hands and squeezed until my fingernails went white, forcing some measure of composure back into myself. As I pulled my hands away I felt a pricking and tearing at one of my fingertips. I brought the finger to my face and deduced that I’d caught it in a splinter. The wound was minuscule, but a pinprick’s worth of blood welled up regardless. I stared at the blood in horror, remembering all too well the Count’s reaction the last time I had nicked myself in his presence. 

And I am a fool! A damned fool! I had tied my crucifix over my bed in an attempt to keep the Count and his cohorts away from me while I slept. It couldn’t save me this time.

Dracula noticed the fresh blood. Of course he noticed. His eyes turned dark and his nostrils flared like a beast’s. He made to stand, and I fell to panic. A frightened rabbit staring down a hungry wolf. I leapt from my chair, swiftly and without care, such that it fell to the floor behind me. I lunged for the nearest doorway my eyes landed on. Before I could take more than a handful of steps the Count was upon me.

He gripped me around the waist and bore me over to the wall. My back crashed into the cold stone. Dracula gripped my wrist and brought my wounded hand to his mouth, inhaling the scent of blood like one of the fine wines he’d been plying me with. With a lusty snarl, he took my fingers onto his tongue, lapping at the wound. The texture of his mouth was curiously dry. 

I focus on this odd detail to delay writing down what happened next. (Once again: Shame.) The matter of bleeding in front of my bloodthirsty host had distracted me from the matter that had consumed my mind for the last few hours, but my body was still very much desperate and in no shape to hold back any longer. Perhaps it was the impact of hitting the wall, or the fear of having the Count so openly feed on me like I’d fed on his generous suppers. Whatever the ultimate cause, I wet myself like a frightened child. Warmth spread from between my thighs, soaking my trousers with a shocking swiftness. Hot mortification joined the cold fear inside my heart, and I was paralyzed. Pinned utterly by my terrible captor, I could do nothing but stand there and let him suck at my fingers while my humiliation dripped onto the stone floor. 

Dracula, damn him, gave no apology for forcing me to soil myself like this. Rather, he stared, gaze turning from my trembling legs to my flushed face. There was a smug satisfaction behind his smile when he finally released my hand and pulled my fingers from his cold lips. 

“Oh dear. Look at the mess you’ve made, my friend.”

This last part, I hesitate even further to put on paper. I would rather forget it, bury it such that it can no longer harm me. As it is, the sight I saw next haunts me. It makes me wonder and worry for what Dracula’s plans are for me. 

That is to say, I had assumed the wicked man meant to merely kill me and drink my blood. However, after he had a taste of me and reveled in my humiliation, I saw the unmistakable evidence of Dracula’s perverse satisfaction sitting stiff between his legs. The thin, fine fabric of his trousers did nothing to conceal it.

He let me go after that. He let me scurry away to lick my wounded pride. But, damn it all, I cannot get that disturbing sight out of my head. Thinking on it — thinking on what he could mean to do to me. . . I cannot stand it. 

Nor can I stand. . . 

(Should I write this?)

No one but me will see these words.

Nor can I stand the fact that when I finally slept, I dreamed of the night’s events, but with quite a different ending. One in which Dracula kept me against the wall and pinned me in quite a different manner. When I woke, I was unbearably aroused.

Gold help me.


End file.
